Neither Inevitable Nor Inappropriate
by ReverendKilljoy
Summary: A PostEp for The Cold with spoilers thereto. JoshDonna fluff bunnies without too many embellishments. Compatible with canon through The Cold.


Disclaimers:

Inspired by characters and situations created by Aaron Sorkin,Thomas Schlamme, John Wells, NBC, Warner Brothers Television Production Inc., and who knows what others. An unauthorized work of speculative fiction. Parental discretion is advised. Do not distribute for profit or without notification. Not to be taken internally. No user serviceable parts inside. Made in the USA. I wouldn't stop for red lights. Strongest fan fiction available without a prescription. May cause dizziness, dry mouth or nausea. Do not read my fanfics while driving, drinking or operating heavy machinery. I'm ReverendKilljoy and I approved this Disclaimer.

_Author's note: Post-Ep for Season 7 "The Cold" with spoilers thereto._

"Neither Inevitable Nor Inappropriate"

by ReverendKilljoy

"The way you said 'inevitable' was... what was that about?"

He stood there, leaning with disturbing ease in my doorway. Like he belonged there, like he hadn't just crushed my first real overture, and my heart along with. He stood, and he leaned, and that one dimple, the right one, the deep one, twitched in and out of sight as he tried to smile.

"What are you doing here?"

That's not what I'd meant to say, of course. I had prepared a speech, a little 'more in sorrow than in anger' number, in case he worked up the courage to come and talk-but-not-talk, to do that dance we do. I had a speech, and that wasn't part of it. Damn him, him and his dimple.

"Before. You said it was inevitable. Do you believe that?"

"I've said a lot of things I don't believe to you over the years, Josh. So again, what are you doing here?"

He shrugged, easing past me into the room. So fluid, the smell of him in the air, the sound of his shoe leather whispering over the berber carpet, and there he was, standing in my room. Damn him.

"I wanted to talk, about today." He was looking out the window. I didn't have a view of the Dumpster. From here, you could see the lights from the Lincoln Memorial, though you could not see the actual site. I've been in D.C. for years now. I'm a player, what Toby calls a professional political operative, when he's drunk. I know those lights, backlighting the other wing of the hotel, are from the Lincoln.

"Don't do this," I said suddenly, and we both startled at the break in my voice. Before he could say anything, I continued in a rush, trying to memorize the way he looked right at that moment, his hair a halo of rust-colored light from the backlight of the Lincoln, his shoulders strong and flexing as he turned. I tried to memorize every detail, for later, for whatever came after, so I'd have this last moment of him to carry with me.

"Don't do this," I continued as he turned, and I closed my eyes to save the image as I rushed on, "Don't talk and explain and rationalize and joke, don't bring the banter, because leaving that key was harder than leaving Wisconsin, either time. And now that you're here to explain why it was inappropriate or weird or wrong I just about want to be sick, so please go. Just go."

I heard him breathing slowly, but I was afraid to open my eyes. I didn't want to replace the Josh I had in my head with the one standing in front of me right now. Instead, I heard him sigh, and I felt his hands, strong and gentle on my shoulders. I wanted to pull away, to run, to die. I wanted to die and never feel anything again.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, the breath of the words like a feather on my lips, he must be standing so close to me. Breaking it gently, sweetly, with a dimple. Callous son of a bitch. Being sweet and thoughtful, at a time like this? What an ass.

"I'm sorry you felt this was inevitable. I always felt like it was a choice, an act of will." Again, the words warm on my face, the feeling of him overpowering, so overwhelming. Wait, what is he saying?

"I'm sorry I didn't get your key before Ronna did. Sorry I didn't explain myself today, better, sorry I waited. Sorry I haven't loved you better."

I opened my eyes, and saw that his were closed, and a tear was slowly running down one cheek. He gasped a little and went on, firmly.

"I'm sorry that I was worried about how things would look, not for me, but for you, instead of telling you that you are amazing, and unique, and I knew it all that first day you walked into my office in Nashua."

I brushed the tear from his cheek with the back of my hand, and his eyes flew open. His hands dropped from my shoulders, sliding down to my waist and drawing me close to him, closer. I blinked away a tear of my own and said huskily, "I told you, Lyman, some day you'd find me valuable."

He chuckled, and pulled me closer still, our bodies touching, our lips brushing together. As our eyes closed, he whispered into my kiss, "The most valuable thing in my world, Donna."

We kissed. It was sweet, and tender, then urgent. It was not our first kiss, and not our last. We kissed often that night, and more, and some hours later, he suddenly rolled me over and kissed me again, hard and sure. When I gasped to a stop, he nodded to the clock. It was, again, 5:00 AM.

"Happy anniversary, Donna."

I laughed. "How do you figure?"

"24 hours and you haven't killed me yet. Care to try again?"

And he kissed me, again, in a place designed to make me want to try once more to do him in, old man that he is. I kissed him back. It was, after all, not inevitable, but a choice. I might point out in my defense that it was also in no way inappropriate.


End file.
